


Maybe I'm a Lion

by damalur



Category: Big Bang Theory
Genre: Angst, F/M, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-13
Updated: 2011-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damalur/pseuds/damalur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They do this every day at dawn and dusk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe I'm a Lion

Sheldon names the guns as he hands them to her. ".30-06," he says, and she takes the rifle from him, lines up her sights, aims, fires. A head explodes. She exhales, inhales, holds her breath, aims, fires. Exhales. Aims. Fires.

When the clip is empty, Sheldon is there at her shoulder. "M1," he says, and it takes her a tenth of a second--maybe less--to adjust to the thicker stock, the smaller sights. She fires.

She exhales.

She lines up her next shot.

They do this every day at dawn and dusk. There's room at the slot between the planks for only one. He's a good shot; she's better. He's gotten damn quick at reloading, though.

She exhales. She empties the rifle. Sheldon is there, at her shoulder. ".22," he says, and hands over her daddy's old squirrel rifle. This one's trickier, takes a true double-tap to put them down.

She inhales, catches her breath, fires twice. A body goes down. That body might have been her neighbor, once. Might have been her friend.

Penny feels (not without a certain sense of guilt) that she's been waiting for this her whole life.

"M1," Sheldon says. She likes this one best, although it's hell on her shoulder. She likes the heft of it, how solid it feels in her hands. Likes the history of it. This gun has seen wars.

She targets a body across the street and the park, lines up her sights, inhales--nails the head at a hundred-fifty years.

She exhales, and only then lets herself crow in triumph.

-

Sheldon is rational. Penny appreciates that now. He's the one who suggested their schedule--the corpses are crepuscular, he'd said--the one who'd figured out how to put them down--you have to destroy the brain tissue, Penny.

Every morning, she clears the street. Every evening, she fires until the light runs out. It's almost funny, to look down from her window perch at the bodies strewn in loose half-circles on the asphalt.

Sheldon takes care of logistics: food, ammunition. Penny takes care of ballistics: bodies, survival.

They do this every day. In the morning, she clears the street; in the evening, she fires until the light runs out; when the light runs out, they light the candles; when the candles are lit, they fuck.

In the morning, she clears the street. Sometimes the new bodies are eating the bodies she put down yesterday. This does not concern Penny. If the flesh weren't infected, she'd be liable to eat a few herself. Woman cannot live on canned beans and peanut butter alone.

(Well--she can, actually. At least so far.)

(But last night, Penny dreamt about _bacon_.)

The light is fading, the light is gone. Time to light the candles.

Penny picks five, Sheldon picks five. Ten candles a night, out of two hundred, three hundred, a thousand. There are candles covering every flat surface. On the ammo boxes, on the desk, on the television. On the refrigerator, there are candles; down the hallway, in Sheldon's old bedroom, there are candles. Penny doesn't know where the candles came from. Logistics is not her concern.

Tonight she picks vanilla, which reminds her of--no, not vanilla. Sandalwood. She picks sandalwood, and lavender, and sweet-pea (sweet-pea always make her feel girly). She picks evergreen, because the hue of the wax seems comforting; she picks linen, because she remembers being clean.

The candles Sheldon picks are unscented. (Jesus, Sheldon, try to be more boring.)

The candles are lit; they've eaten their meal for the day. Time to fuck.

They fuck on their floor, because Penny refuses to sleep in Sheldon's bed and Sheldon refuses to sleep in Leonard's bed. (Leonard, however, had never refused to sleep in Penny's bed; Penny tried to explain to Sheldon why this was funny, but he'd looked at her blankly, absorbed with the radio. It is funny, though--trust her.)

They fuck without protection, which is the stupidest thing Penny did today but not the stupidest thing she did yesterday, or last week, or last month. They fuck on the floor, without protection. Penny takes the clothes from her body and Sheldon takes the clothes from his body and then they stretch their bodies out on the floor and screw by candlelight. It might even be romantic.

As he fucks into her, Penny sets her teeth against the sturdy muscle of Sheldon's shoulder. She could bite down here, into his flesh, leave a mark on him. Maybe he wouldn't even mind. Bodies usually don't. Sheldon might mind, though--

They finish. They roll over--Penny to her stomach, Sheldon to his back.

"When we leave for Boulder," Sheldon says.

"Jesus, this isn't some Stephen King book. It's not like we're going to find god in the Rockies," Penny mutters.

"When we leave for Boulder," Sheldon says, "we should take the radio with us."

"Take your own damn radio. I'm not going."

"You're going if I have to knock you unconscious and carry you," Sheldon says.

"Try it. I dare you," Penny says, and bares her teeth against her arm--

And exhales.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Certain Half-Deserted Streets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/231178) by [Lauren (notalwaysweak)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren)




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